


The Doll House

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, General Creepiness, Greg is a serial killer, Handcuffs, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Mycroft's well equipped, Obsession, Stalking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, dependent relationship, graphic depictions of murder, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade isn't who he seems. Devoted father to his daughter, cheerful to his cheating ex-wife - and a serial killer that has gone undetected for over twenty years. Until he meets Mycroft Holmes, who seems more fascinated than appalled and ends up drawn into the ever-increasing web of Greg's deceptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely [baynecroft](baynecroft.tumblr.com) as part of the Winter Mystrade Exchange! Sorry this took me a couple days to get out once I was given your assignment. :)
> 
> I was asked for dark!Lestrade, and he's dark indeed.
> 
> You can follow me for updates [here.](http://iolre.tumblr.com)

Greg stripped off his gloves and tossed them into the rubbish bin, giving orders to Sally as he strode out of the building. The scene techs, or scene of crime officers, were going to finish giving it a thorough go-over, bagging all the forensic evidence and ensuring that the Met was going to have everything they needed to prosecute whomever committed the murder. Shoddy, Greg thought with a despairing shake of his head. No elegance, just raw, brutal need. No need for Sherlock.

“I have a hunch that we’ll find a trace back to her lover,” Greg told Sally once they had stopped outside.

She nodded, jotting it down on the small notepad she always carried. “I’ll have the requisite paperwork on your desk in the morning. Shall we locate him now?”

“Yeah, might as well.” Greg absently scratched the back of his head, then threaded his hand through the short hair for a moment, thinking. “If we’re lucky he’ll still have the clothes with her blood. What’s the address?”

A few hours later the man was sitting in a holding cell, confession obtained and all necessary evidence gathered. “Stupid,” Greg muttered, shaking his head at his computer as he tapped away at the keys.

“Sorry, sir?” Sally said politely, standing near the door.

“Nothing, nothing,” Greg answered with a dismissive shake of his head. “Make sure the paperwork for the Jones case is on my desk by morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Sally nodded and then turned around and left, closing the door behind her. Greg only allowed himself to relax once he heard the click, positive that the only entrance to his office had been properly latched. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, letting out a sigh. It had been a long few weeks, one large case after another, all just small enough that Sherlock would refuse to assist. There hadn’t been time for a case of his own in nearly two months.

It was enough time for him to get antsy. Restless. For him to worry about making mistakes. That was dangerous, because he couldn’t afford to make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to slip up, not even a little bit. That was the most difficult part about being a serial killer that hired Sherlock Holmes as a consulting detective. He had to stay one step ahead of one of the most brilliant men in the world. It was a dance, a game, a fight. He had to anticipate Sherlock’s moves and make those of his own.

Greg wouldn’t boast that he was smarter than Sherlock, but he certainly had more common sense. Sherlock couldn’t see what was right under his nose. Which was understandable, since Greg had had years of perfecting his skills. He could play his part better than any actor he had ever met. Could play human better than any serial killer he had ever known of. Despite that, all it would take was one mistake and he would end up on Sherlock’s radar, and then that would be the end of him.

Standing, he partially closed the blinds - not completely, people could still see in, but the blinds were three-quarters turned which meant they couldn’t see much. The door was locked with a click and the volume on his phone was turned down to one notch above silent. The monitor was dimmed. Few distractions. He settled down into his chair, arranging himself comfortably.

It was too risky to maintain physical evidence of his crimes. Souvenirs, newspaper clippings - any of it could be discovered at any time. Sherlock had quickly proven himself to be unpredictable in his desire to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and the quickest way to be caught was to be discovered with documentation of his own crimes. Greg wasn’t a rookie. He wouldn’t make the errors that disorganised killers did, the ones that got them caught. Not as long as he was careful, anyway. Meticulous. As long as he fulfilled the urge that surged and overtook him every so often. Didn’t let it grow too large. He inhaled, exhaled, and then sank down inside himself.

_He opened up his eyes, took in the house looming in front of him with a fond smile. His home. His doll house. Where he kept anything and everything he would ever need to remember, to cherish. He walked up the cobblestone pathway, to the front door, and pushed it open, delighting in the familiar smells that wafted his way. The smell changed every time he came, but it was always a variation of the same thing. Today it was the bright, tempting smell of cheese-laden garlic bread. Warm. Inviting him. Begging him for release._

_Stepping inside, he walked in further, caressing the large mahogany bookshelves that lined the interior of the living room, the entrance room. Taller than he was but not by much. Dark, well-stained wood. Gave it a homey touch, a lived-in look. He had always found files to be so impersonal, preferring to store all of his information in books instead. Files were for things that didn’t matter. Information that was useful for him to avoid getting caught._

_Books were vivid, made to be read over and over, relived. Cherished. It made pleasure twist in his gut every time he traced the spine of a book, saw the name on it, knew who it was, what it said. He had them all memorised, but he loved to just look at them. Think. Feel. Remember every moment of each of his victim’s lives, witness every moment of their terror, their fear - and eventually their acceptance. That moment of complete, utter surrender._

_With a longing sigh he walked past the shelves, heading towards the stairs. He knew where he was going. What he wanted. Bright white and blue ‘do not enter’ tape marked the hall he wanted, and he pushed through it with a sharp inhale. Yes. Yes, this was what he wanted. What he needed. He couldn’t have the real thing, so what he had instead was almost nearly as good. It kept him sated for a while, kept him from killing more, from getting caught._

_He stepped inside the door, into what had once been a bedroom. It was a perfect replica, although no one but him would have made the connection. The bed, the draw, the wardrobe - even the cracked TV set. On the bed was a still teenage boy, his pale skin stark against the dark blue of the duvet. Greg stepped over, breathing faster, his heart rate increasing. He could see the faint bruises on the boy’s skin. Could see the petechiae in his eyes, from where the little blood vessels had burst when Greg strangled him._

_His first kill. He had been 18, just a boy himself. Sitting down on the bed next to the boy, he shifted his attention, glancing around. It had been his first murder, and his forensic skills had been imperfect, but he had gotten away with it. The murder had gone unsolved, only now to find its way into Greg’s stack of cold cases at the Met. He felt a little thrill in his gut every time he read the file, every time he saw what little information they had on the killer. It was those kind of nights that found him wanking furiously until he fell asleep, buzzed by the fact he had outsmarted all of the idiots he worked with. Sherlock was right. He was always right. They were all fools._

_With a low sigh Greg moved, straddling the corpse, his hands moving forward to take the neck in a bruising gap. It was like time flew backwards, and the body underneath him was alive again, struggling. Fighting, trying to break free so that he could try to pry Greg’s hands off of his throat. Not that he could move, tied up like he was. The police had checked for any sort of restraints, but they had missed the soft kind that Greg knew wouldn’t leave any marks._

_His eyes fluttered closed as he felt the blood pulse underneath his fingers, felt the muscles twitch as the young man fought for breath. As life slowly left his body, as the spasms weakened. Greg let out a low, choked moan as he heard the sound of the restraints being pulled at lessened. Oh god, yes. He bowed his head, feeling the young man go still, feel him stop moving, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t risk him just being unconscious. Couldn’t risk him waking up, ruining everything. His skin felt warm, tingly, hypersensitive. Murdering someone was the best high he had ever experienced. His nerves sang. His body tingled, coalescing low in his belly, the wave of pleasure overwhelming him as his body swam in a sea of endorphins._

He opened his eyes just as there was a knock on the door. It took him thirty seconds to focus on bringing his heart rate down, slowing his breathing - gathering himself back to the appearance of a DI who had just been interrupted from vital paperwork. “Come in,” he barked, leaning back in his chair. Then he remembered that the door was locked, but before he could stand to open it it clicked and slid open. He lifted an eyebrow, inwardly impressed.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” The voice was familiar to Greg, but not overly so. He had seen him around Baker Street once or twice, seen him at a crime scene another time or two. Always around Sherlock. His older brother, Mycroft. Greg kept his face impassive, but his mind had lit up to full attention like it was Christmas in crime solving. What had drawn the attention of the elder Holmes?

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. How may I help you?” Greg leaned forward and flipped up the brightness on his monitor screen, restoring it to normal levels.

“My brother has not had a case for you in approximately twenty three days,” Mycroft mused, checking a small notebook in his jacket pocket.

“That sounds about right,” Greg agreed with a genial smile. Inwardly he was on high alert, tracking every little movement Mycroft made. He was legendary among the higher echelon of crime. Known for being even smarter than Sherlock. It sent a faint prickle of anticipation skittering over Greg’s skin. Going head to head with Mycroft would be even better than dueling with Sherlock.

“Why is this?” Mycroft consulted another page. “The Hardy case, two weeks ago, seemed that it would have been to my brother’s liking.”

Greg flipped the files on his desk, grabbing the one Mycroft had mentioned. Ah, this one. Not one of his, no, but he had had a hunch, knew where to look for the evidence they had needed to find their killer. Outwardly it looked like a case that would have been perfect for Sherlock, and in retrospect Greg probably should have called him in, but occasionally he did prefer for his team to get some credit. He couldn’t run to Sherlock for everything. “My team had a hunch on how to prove the identity of the killer,” Greg explained.

“So they - proceeded to test the drying times of multiple types of blood splatter on various surfaces?” Mycroft inquired, the skepticism in his voice making Greg squirm inwardly, but in a delicious way. He was smart. Greg was half-hard in his pants already. A game. Oh, this would be fun.

“Sherlock has inspired creativity in, shall we say, their approach to some aspects of criminal investigation,” Greg replied with a grin. “The case was wrapped up nicely, and we didn’t have to ruffle Sherlock’s feathers. Next big, gruesome case we get, I’ll call him in. Promise.”

“I was hoping we would be able to set aside yet another time for a further discussion of my brother’s involvement with the Met.” Mycroft’s voice was slightly more hesitant, and Greg caught a flicker of his gaze, revealing nerves. This was interesting. Most people were only nervous if they were asking someone for something far more significant than a simple work meeting.

“Sure.” Greg pulled out his diary, flicking to the relevant week, picking up a pen and tapping the date. “I’m free tomorrow evening and Saturday after 3pm.” And Sunday, he thought, but didn’t add. Sunday he had plans.

“Saturday should be acceptable. My driver shall pick you up at approximately 6:30pm.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “Please do dress acceptably.”

“Oh, of course.” Greg laughed, extending his hand for a handshake. Mycroft took it, holding it for a few seconds longer than was absolutely necessary.

“I shall see you then.” The elder Holmes nodded his head, then turned and disappeared out the door, shutting it behind him. Greg tapped the tip of his pen against his lips, thoughtful. It would be his most interesting date yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update took so long. School has been driving me crazy! Anyway, here it is. Hopefully the next ones will be more consistent and you won't have to wait quite this long again. :3
> 
> Enjoy~

The few days leading up to Saturday were utter torture for Greg. The anticipation made him dizzy, just lightheaded enough that he was eager for his meeting with Mycroft instead of nervous. He was old and wise enough to know how to avoid the sort of rookie mistakes that most killers would make, but this was Mycroft Holmes, who could read everything about a person in a single glance. Clothes, mannerisms, microexpressions - Greg controlled them as best as he could, but in the end, he was only human.

He dressed nicely, for his dinner date. Slacks, a warm, maroon button down, highlighting the brown of his eyes and the silver in his hair. His nicest pair of shoes. No tie. Mobile in one pocket, wallet tucked in another. It was only 6:15, and time was moving agonizingly slow. Part of him was especially antsy. Tomorrow was the day, his day off, and he would make plans, figure out how to fulfill his need without getting caught.

It was far more complex than most people assumed. He was need-driven, yes, but at the same time, he had gone a long time without getting caught and it was a streak he preferred to maintain. There was a slight knock on the door and he strode over, grabbing his keys off the table. A woman was standing outside, her attention on her mobile, and she glanced up and lifted an eyebrow speculatively as Greg flashed her a cheerful smile. “Off we go?” he inquired.

She turned around and click-clacked down the hall. Greg shut and locked the door behind him, stuffing his keys in with his wallet. She opened the door to the black car and slid in opposite him, ignoring him the entire ride. Greg was alright with that. He liked the silence, liked the peace and time to think through what he had to do that night. Talk about Sherlock. He could do that. Sherlock had never worked on one of Greg’s cases, never tried to solve the unsolvable, but it was only a matter of time. Still, Greg had a suitable list of cases that he could discuss with the elder Holmes, should the need arise.

The car slid to a stop in front of a neat but not extravagant restaurant. Classy, but not overly so. Mycroft was waiting just out front, checking a pocket watch just before noticing the car. His brolly was slung over his arm, and he was dressed impeccably in a pinstriped three-piece suit. He tucked the watch away in its pocket and inclined his head in Greg’s direction. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Greg replied easily with a slight bow. “Call me Greg, please.” It was years of controlling his expressions that allowed him to stifle the slight smirk at the barest hint of a wrinkled nose on Mycroft’s face. He disapproved of how pedestrian Greg’s name was. Interesting. It meant he knew the alternative, then. “Or Gregory, if you prefer.” No crinkle this time, only the slightest shift of his eyes. Approval.

“This way.” Mycroft led the way inside, weaving his way through the tables before leading them to one in the back. It was tucked to the side, so that both men had a view of the other patrons but were relatively obscured. It was also far enough away that little of their conversation would be overheard. Greg regarded it skeptically, interested in Mycroft’s reasons for choosing such a private nook. Surely Sherlock’s health and well-being were not that much of a security risk? Or was he just that paranoid about his dates?

They sat in sync, both pulling out their own chairs. Equals. Mycroft ordered wine in a low, sultry voice, and kept shooting Greg glances that he couldn’t quite decipher. There was lust, yes, and interest, but there were smaller flickers of more complex feelings that were difficult to unknot in the small amount of time he saw them. “So what exactly did you want to know about Sherlock?” he asked pleasantly once the wine had been poured.

“The Hardy case.” Mycroft’s eyes were sharp, practically gleaming. Like a cat that was close to pouncing upon a mouse. Greg swallowed his next sip of wine a bit more quickly than he had intended to. “Why did you not consult Sherlock?”

“I told you,” Greg said patiently, ignoring Mycroft and browsing the menu for something he recognised. It had been quite some time since he had been to an upscale restaurant. He wasn’t cheap, no, but there had simply been no reason to go now that he was single and trying to avoid attention. “I had a hunch, and my team was willing to prove it.”

“I am curious as to where this hunch came from.” Mycroft lifted the wine glass to his lips and took a small sip. Greg could feel his eyes on him, could feel the prickle of anticipation on his skin, feel the adrenaline start to flow through him. It was delicious at the same time he was wary. One misstep could be fatal for him.

“It resembled a case I saw a long time ago, before I was a DI,” Greg answered evenly. “I was trying to encourage my Sergeant and forensics team to be more open to Sherlock’s methods, and thought that the best way to do that was to encourage them to try it.”

The waiter came by, and each man ordered in turn. Mycroft’s gaze, which had been drawn by the waiter, immediately turned back to Greg. “Has Sherlock mentioned me?” he inquired. Mycroft studied Greg intently for a moment, then shook his head. “Not by name, no. Interesting.”

“He’s mentioned an older brother once or twice,” Greg said helpfully. The conversation was taking a more personal turn, something he had been prepared for. He was both excited and nervous about the direction it could take. The two melded together to a sort of anticipatory calm, where his heightened senses kept him from panicking while allowing him their benefits.

“There was a case today. You consulted him on it.” Mycroft took another sip of his wine when Greg nodded. “Not one of yours.”

For a second Greg paused, although he refused to let his body show it. His hand continued moving his glass of wine to his lips, allowed him to take a sip, swallow it. Go through the motions. “It is one of mine,” he said slowly, puzzled, as if he was confused as to what the elder Holmes was insinuating.

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft looked vaguely chastened, and paused as the waiter delivered their meals. “Certainly.”

Greg watched him as he slipped his napkin onto his lap, eyes alight. Mycroft was a clever one, which was something that Greg had already known. It was different, however, seeing him come to life in front of him. “Sherlock won’t work with anyone else on the force,” he pointed out amicably.

“Has Sherlock mentioned I have him and his constant associates under surveillance?” Mycroft sliced a delicate bite of fish and gently poked it with the fork, bringing it to his lips. “The cameras tell an intriguing story.” He placed the meat in his mouth and chewed, apparently nonchalant.

“I can’t imagine what would be interesting about Sherlock on the CCTV,” Greg muttered, shaking his head slightly. Did Mycroft know? If he did, why had he not had him arrested? The toe of a well-shod foot nudged against his, startling him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Mycroft watching him with a veiled innocence. For all that Greg thought he was in control of the situation, it was obvious that there were things going on that he was not fully aware of.

“Sherlock has his moments,” Mycroft said absently. “Sometimes, however, his associates can prove to be interesting.” His lips curled up slightly, and Greg narrowed his eyes even as he continued to cut up and eat his dinner.

“I can’t imagine I’m interesting to watch.” Greg tilted his head to the side, roguish. He had ensured that his...hobbies were contained to areas that were out of sight of the cameras. Unless they had been specifically commandeered. Interesting.

“On the contrary, DI Lestrade, I believe you maintain some intriguing habits.” Mycroft’s voice spoke of something hidden, something dark and wanting, but his body language was deliberately bland. Greg wasn’t sure of what to make of the blatant contradiction, so he ignored it.

“What about you?” Greg asked. “Any secret habits that you want to spill on our first official meeting?” He kept his voice light, casual. Pretending to ignore the probing nature of Mycroft’s initial question, but at the same time preventing at least temporarily any further attempts to understand.

“I’m afraid I live a rather simple life.” Mycroft sliced his fish, placed a bite in his mouth, and chewed it deliberately, licking his lips when he was done. If Greg didn’t know better (or did he?), he would have assumed it was a blatant seduction technique. It wasn’t even an official date, why was Mycroft making overtures? “Work consumes the majority of my time, and otherwise, I do prefer to maintain my own surveillance. Ensure that others do not see what might compromise the safety of certain assets.”

Greg chewed a particularly juicy bite of steak for a moment, thinking. Mycroft knew. There wasn’t really another option, not with all that he had hinted. Unless he had designed a secret life for Greg that he was convinced was true - an alternate reality - Mycroft knew what he used his free time for, but didn’t seem to mind. Interesting. “Of course. We don’t want Sherlock getting caught doing something he's not supposed to, yeah?”

“Oh, certainly.” Mycroft allowed a smile to cross his lips, humouring Greg’s attempts at deflection, and the two fell silent, finishing the rest of their meal in peace. The waiter dropped by occasionally, refilling their wine, but Greg savoured just two glasses, conscious of his need for sobriety. Although he was fairly certain Mycroft knew, the last thing he wanted to do was get drunk and remove all doubt by confessing to murder. That would certainly rank as the worst date he would have been on.

Finally the food was gone and both men were sipping the last of their glasses of wine. Mycroft lifted his, tilting it towards Greg in a mockery of a toast. “To unique hobbies.”

Greg lifted an eyebrow, but lifted his glass and tapped it to Mycroft’s nonetheless. “Looking after Sherlock can be an exhausting hobby, can it not?”

A pleased smile grew on Mycroft’s face, and his eyes wrinkled in pleasure. Apparently that was a suitable cover topic for whatever was truly being discussed. Someday, Greg resolved to strap Mycroft down and discover what was actually being talked about, and why nothing had been done about the information Mycroft had. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life constantly looking over his shoulder any more than he already did. It wasn’t healthy.

“I fear our time has come to an end,” Mycroft said blithely, standing.

“I should pay at least half,” Greg protested.

Mycroft shook his head and caught the waiter’s eye. The young man quickly came over and led them towards the door, listening intently when Mycroft leaned closer and talked to him. Greg heard snippets, such as credit, and later charge. Apparently Mycroft was a frequent customer who had a line of credit. Interesting. Maybe Mycroft was simply too rich to pay for his own dinners on the spot.

Greg allowed Mycroft to lead him outside, and there were two black cars idling near the door. “Two?” he inquired mildly.

Mycroft lifted an elegant eyebrow, daring him to comment, and then extended a hand. “I had the most pleasant time, Gregory,” he said smoothly. “I hope we are able to continue our association in the future. May I propose two meetings a month, as able, for us to discuss my younger brother’s well-being?” He paused, hearing Greg’s objections before he could voice them. “Schedules and...hobbies permitting, of course.” There was the secret smirk again, the one that showed he knew something he wasn’t willing to disclose. It intrigued Greg, as much as he hated it.

“Sounds good to me.” Greg said evenly. He extended his hand and the two of them shook. Mycroft didn’t break eye contact, held Greg’s hand longer than was formal, then ended the shake with a brief squeeze.

“Until next time, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his eyes intent on Greg’s face.

“See you soon, Mycroft.” Greg flashed him a grin, enjoying the faint flash of surprise, before striding towards the second black car and waiting for the same female assistant to open it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft slide into the first, giving orders to his driver at the same time. “Home we go?” he asked his driver absently.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied obediently.

Greg was silent for the rest of the trip, lost in thought as he attempted to process what he had learned through the course of the dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Trigger warnings for murder. And general creepiness. And...stuff. I don't know what the hell happened in this chapter.

Greg exhaled slowly as he looked at the woman who was firmly strapped to the table. It was the middle of the night, and he had plucked her off the street, offering her a place to stay until morning. He checked his watch. 3am. Good, he had time. It had been a secluded alleyway, no cameras. Not that it mattered, because he had been wearing a disguise. Dark brown hair, scruff, gloves, and glasses. Nondescript clothes. He had walked her to his car, glanced around, and lifted a cloth with chloroform on it to her nose and mouth. She had struggled, fighting against his grip, before passing out and going limp against him. Next he had slid the syringe into a vein in her arm, injecting the sedative, ensuring that she wouldn’t be moving for the duration of the ride.

It was a relatively short drive to abandoned shed he had located a few months ago. He always waited, once a place was identified. There was always the risk something wasn’t truly abandoned, or that someone saw his car, or a myriad other things that could happen that he had to be prepared for. Once they had arrived, it was quick work to pick up the still unconscious woman and get to work inside the already prepared shed. He had stripped her and then bound her with his favourite soft leather restraints. They wouldn’t show any damage post-mortem, which made them optimal. He stroked a hand lovingly over the thick belts.

Once she was secured he walked back out to his car, fetching the tool box he kept in the boot and carrying it in. He wasn’t too worried about forensics, not really. The shed was old and rickety, and it was a miracle that it hadn’t already burned down. It just needed some assistance, once he was done with it. Then he would wrap the body in plastic wrap, stuff it in his car, and drive about an hour in a different direction. He had already picked out the disposal site.

Part of him wanted to whistle as he walked back towards the shed, but he didn’t out of a desire for discretion. He was cheerful, relaxed. Murder was enjoyable in many ways. Seeing that moment of complete, utter surrender was like cocaine for Greg, except the high lasted months instead of hours. He slid off his gloves, tucked them into a compartment of the box, and pulled on latex gloves instead. The woman was starting to stir, her fingers twitching as the drugs metabolized through her system and started to wear off.

Her eyes opened first, disoriented before quickly realizing where she was. Greg smiled at her, taking a seat on the table so she could see his face. “Hello,” he said pleasantly. She said something through her gag, and he shook his head. “Afraid I can’t understand you.” His was staring intently at her, seeing the fear, the way her face shifted as he moved, going to his toolbox and grabbing a full-length protective shield. It was similar to what he wore at crime scenes to avoid contaminating evidence, feet covers and all. Blood spatter was so messy, and he didn’t want to leave any sign of his presence behind.

“You never use the same place twice.” The voice startled Greg, and the mask slipped from his fingers as he shifted immediately, pinning the other man against the wall with his arm behind his back.

“What are you doing here?” Greg gritted out, adrenaline giving him a surge of strength. Mycroft didn’t seem intimidated by Greg, instead he seemed to shift slightly, relaxing into the restraint as if it was the most natural thing.

“Hello, Gregory,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “I merely came as an observer.”

“What. Are you doing here?” Greg repeated, his tone icy. The woman on the table made a noise, and Greg ignored her. She wasn’t going anywhere. He tightened his grip, and heard Mycroft bite back a moan. Greg considered this for a moment. It wasn’t something he had quite anticipated. Interesting.

“Observing.” Mycroft’s lips curved into a smile, and there was something dark there that Greg liked.

“You’re alone?” he inquired.

“Yes. Neither my security nor my driver know I am out.”

“That’s a lie.” Greg tightened his grip again, to the point he was starting to risk muscle damage, and Mycroft just shivered as if someone was sucking him off. Greg wanted to lean forward, rip off Mycroft’s clothes, bite his neck, his shoulders, crop him, whip him, make him cry. Irrational. Mentally he shook away the images of miles of pale skin covered in blood and bruises, forced down the arousal it caused. He had to focus.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and he sounded pleased.

“I will break your arm if you don’t tell me,” Greg threatened.

“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg saw him lick his lips. “Pleasure isn’t a good source of punishment.”

“You’re a pain slut, aren’t you?” Greg dropped his voice down as far as he could, let it rumble into Mycroft’s ear. The taller man shuddered, let out a small moan.

“Possibly.” Mycroft’s breath hitched on the word, and he squirmed, making a soft noise when he strained his arm too far. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Greg stretched Mycroft’s arm, nearly too much, and then let go, ignoring the frustrated sound that Mycroft made. “I’m a bit busy.”

Mycroft looked from the woman to Greg. “Certainly.”

“How do I know this isn’t a sting?” Greg asked, picking up the scalpel and toying with it. It was a lovely instrument that would leave thin, red lines across Mycroft’s skin. He could imagine the blood welling up, imagine how it would look if he smeared it around the pale skin.

Mycroft stepped forward, his eyes dark, and his erection was easy to see in the neatly tailored trousers. Greg eyed it, for a moment, and Mycroft grabbed his head and tugged him forward into a kiss. It was teeth and tongues, an immediate fight for dominance. For all that it seemed Mycroft got off on being hurt, he also liked to be in control. He was gripping Greg’s head too tight, nibbling on his bottom lip, and Greg reached down to cup Mycroft’s cock through his trousers, just on the right side of too much pressure, and Mycroft gasped. Greg shifted, slipping a glove-covered hand into Mycroft’s hair and yanking so that he could take control. Mycroft’s hands dropped to his sides.

Greg held Mycroft still as he pulled back, and Mycroft stared at him, daring. Oh, Greg mused, he was going to be fun. He leaned forward, holding Mycroft’s face still, and nibbled on his bottom lip, kissed him deeply, exploring every crevice of his mouth. When he pulled back, there was blood dribbling from the side of Mycroft’s mouth. Greg licked it up, sucked on the wound in Mycroft’s lower lip, and nipped it again for good measure. Mycroft hissed, but did not move his hands.

“I am not here to, as you said, ‘sting’ you,” the politician said, licking his lips and seeming to savour the taste of blood. “And my driver is down the road.”

Greg studied him for a few moments. “You could stay,” he offered.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in faint distaste. “It is abominably messy.”

“That’s a first,” Greg mused, and he turned to regard the woman. “Not that it’s wrong, but messy.”

“I have priorities, Gregory,” Mycroft said absently. “I shall see you soon, I think.”

Greg raised the scalpel to his head in a mock salute as the other man walked towards the door. He paused, just inside the door frame. “If you happen to need assistance with - disposal, feel free to call.” With one last wave of his fingers, Mycroft disappeared into the night. Greg stared at the door for a moment, then sighed.

“I’m going to have to burn these,” he told midair as he strolled back towards the woman. “Can’t have any DNA on them, if I want to use them further.” She was watching him, eyes wide and wary. “Don’t worry, love.” He smiled. “I’m still going to kill you.” Yanking off the suit, he rolled it up and walked it back to his car, laying it on the back seat. He figured he might as well get some use out of it.

Greg carried a spare one in the boot of his car, just in case. If anyone saw it he could easily argue it had other uses. Somehow. He changed his gloves next, snapping on a clean pair, and then slid his crime scene suit up over his clothes. The woman was trying to scream through her gag, trying to fight her restraints, and he stood and watched her for a few moments. “It’s not going to work,” he told her, leaning over to make eye contact. She glared at him, fear easy to read, and continued trying.

He memorized everything about her, carefully imprinting all of the details into a book that could be stored in his doll house, in his mind, for him to peruse at will for the rest of his life. The way her face shifted when he raised the scalpel. The noises she made as he sliced a line down her abdomen, the way her muscles twitched. How her eyes slowly changed, how tears rolled down her cheeks. Her fight was slowly sapped away, and as he slipped his hands around her throat (strangling was far less messy than cutting them to pieces), he felt her give up.

Once she was gone, he stepped back, studied her, looked for the small signs that indicated her demise. Part of him wanted to wank, right then and there, but there was time for that later. Now he had to focus on the little things that kept him from getting caught. What separated him from the idiots that he and Sherlock caught. He took a deep breath, and started his process.

It was a few hours before Greg had finished, burying the various bits of the woman in several different spots in the same forest. It was a time-consuming process, really, but ensured that even if one part of her was found, they would be unlikely to connect it to him. That was key to not getting caught. He had to stop and burn his clothes and what was left of the dirty woman’s belongings. Then there was one last trip to the shed. First he cleaned up the blood, let the wood dry, not wanting to leave the smell of cleaners in the air after the fire was discovered. He would be back in a few days to start the fire. It was easier, with time between the two. Less chance of police noticing the cleaning on the floor and decide to test it with luminol.

Finally he made it home. Threw his wallet, keys, mobile on the table. He had to be to work in five hours. But he didn’t care. For the first time in months, he felt at peace. Like all the buzzing noise in his mind had finally quieted. He sank onto the sofa, leaned his head back, shifted his hips. His mobile buzzed before he could unzip his jeans, and he glared at it before getting up and grabbing it. He was obligated to respond to work, no matter what he was doing.

_‘Made it home safely, I see. MH’_

Greg chuckled. _‘Can you see what I’m doing next, hm? GL’_

Deliberately he unzipped his jeans, slid his hand in his pants, started stroking himself. His free hand was still on his mobile. It buzzed again, and Greg quickly opened the message.

_‘I’m afraid you might have to show me. Tuesday? 7:30? MH’_

Greg smirked. _‘It’s a date. GL’_

Tossing the mobile onto the floor, within arm’s reach, he closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he fucked his fist. When he came, it was with Mycroft’s name on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the warnings to reflect what happens in this chapter, so please re-read them. This can probably be skipped if you're not comfortable reading it.
> 
> I'm guessing there's probably 5 or 7 chapters left? I've got a good idea where this is going.
> 
> Basically, this chapter is smut with a hint of plot. More mindfuckery. The last paragraph is the most relevant.

Mycroft had insisted on an actual dinner when Greg arrived. He raised an eyebrow, and Mycroft countered with a smirk. Fine. The food was already prepared, and Greg slid easily into his chair. They were at a small table tucked into the corner of the room, very much like where they had dined on their first date. Mycroft poured the wine this time, served the meals, and Greg watched him intently.

“How have you been, Gregory?” Mycroft inquired mildly.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “We did just see each other a few days back,” he said skeptically.

Mycroft smiled, raised the spoon to his mouth, and licked it clean, taking his time and making appropriately lewd noises. He didn’t seem overly in a hurry, so Greg allowed himself to relax and enjoy the show. “Answer the question.”

“Life has been uneventful.” Greg took a drink of the wine. “All loose ends are - tied up, shall we say? Properly handled.”

Mycroft’s eyes glittered. “Did you hear about the fire in the countryside? An abandoned shed burned down, what a shame.”

Greg smiled blithely. “Owners should be more careful in the future. I hear it was caused by a short in the wires.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft spooned another bite of soup into his mouth, patted it delicately with a serviette. He took a sip of his wine, his eyes focused intently on Greg’s the entire time.

“Right.” Greg pushed back the half-eaten bowl of soup. “I think I’m done with dinner.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Greg stood, crossing his arms. “This might get messy.”

Greg watched Mycroft close his eyes, just for a second. Bite his lip. God, he wanted to throw him on the floor and rip him to bits “I am amenable to messy, under these circumstances,” Mycroft murmured, his voice low and husky. Aroused.

The air was thick with anticipation. Greg was nearly salivating at what he knew was coming. There weren’t any rules to their game. It was more fun that way. They were like two trains on a collision course. When they crashed, it would be spectacular. Greg’s skin felt electric, like all of his nerves were attuned to the man not far from him. He could barely imagine what the night would be like. He would get to unravel a Holmes, find out what made them tick.

“Up.” Greg crooked a finger. “You’re leading the way.”

Mycroft sat there. Stared. Defiant. A game. Everything was a game, with him. Somehow Greg didn’t mind. He smiled politely, leaned down, put his mouth right next to Mycroft’s ear. “Listen, you little pain slut. Get your sweet arse to your bedroom. Strip naked. And wait. Then I’ll thrash you, just like you want.” Mycroft bit back a moan..

Greg stood, went to the door. Waited for Mycroft to lead the way, then he grabbed his bag and followed. He had prepared for their night together, gathered some things from his kit that wouldn’t be missed. Mycroft could dispose of them somewhere that they wouldn’t be found, and no one would ask questions. That was part of Mycroft’s appeal, after all. The power that ran through his veins, utter and absolute. It was different than Greg’s, but Greg loved it. It was intoxicating.

Mycroft stepped just inside what Greg figured was the master bedroom. He was already loosening his tie, slipping it over his head, fingers quickly moving to the buttons of his jacket then his waistcoat. The movements were automatic, practiced. Greg watched Mycroft as he carefully removed layer after layer until finally he was naked. “On the bed.”

“Aren’t you going to handcuff me, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft practically purred, sitting on the side of the bed and watching Greg intently with hungry eyes. Greg stepped past him, clearing off his nightstand and emptying the contents of the small bag on top of it.

“On your back,” Greg said, pointing to the center of the bed. He saw Mycroft move in his peripheral vision. Most of his attention was on sorting out the implements he needed. Tonight would be short. Over too soon. Mycroft was hard already, distractingly so. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Greg asked absently. He had pulled out what he would want right away, left it within arm’s reach. “Arms up, over your head, wrists together.”

Crawling onto the bed, Greg searched behind the pillows, nearly straddling Mycroft at the same time. “There’s a ring at each edge, one in each centre,” Mycroft murmured, reaching up to nudge at Greg’s clothes, inquisitive. Greg pulled out the ring and slid one side of the handcuffs through, snapping the thin metal cuffs around each of Mycroft’s wrists in turn.

He stepped off the bed, grabbed some rope, and sat it between Mycroft’s spread legs. Next he grabbed Mycroft’s ankles and yanked until he heard Mycroft hiss. Greg grinned. Good. He quickly tied Mycroft’s ankles to the respective corners of the bed. Mycroft couldn’t move. Maybe wiggle a little, but he couldn’t get away. Greg sat on the side of the bed and studied him for a moment. Mycroft was watching him expectantly, his chest and neck already flushed a pale shade of pink. Promising. His cock was hard, precome pooling on his belly. “So excited already,” Greg mused, leaning over to study Mycroft’s chest. So many freckles.

It was going to get messy, and quickly, so Greg stepped back and took a moment to slowly, oh so slowly, take off his clothes. He kept his eyes on Mycroft the entire time. Saw the other man bite his lip. Shiver. Try to rut into the air. Oh, no. None of that. “I’ll tie you down if I have to,” Greg chided, fully naked.

“You already have.”

“Child’s play,” Greg scoffed. He grabbed a scalpel and settled at the base of the bed, between Mycroft’s spread legs. Mycroft’s legs were smooth, and Greg slid a hand up from Mycroft’s ankle to his inner thigh. No hair was nice. He hadn’t expected that. Mycroft’s skin twitched underneath his touch. Muscle spasms. Greg smiled.

He caressed Mycroft’s thigh with the dull part of the scalpel. Sensitizing him. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, could hear how his breathing changed when he twisted the blade and sliced three quick, shallow marks on his inner thigh. Mycroft inhaled sharply, let out a moan, but didn’t move. Greg was almost disappointed. There was time, still.

Leaning down, he licked the bleeding cuts, savouring the taste of blood in his mouth. Mycroft jerked in his bounds, hissing as Greg sliced the same cuts in his other thigh. Symmetry. Greg liked it. He licked those cuts too. Bit them, nibbled, sucked. Listened to Mycroft make an increasing amount of noise. He pulled back, surveyed what he had done. There was blood on the white sheets. Mycroft’s thighs were still bleeding, thin trickles of red obeying gravity’s orders.

He straddled Mycroft this time, tilting his head back as he bucked his hips, rubbing his cock against Mycroft’s. The friction felt good, sent pleasure coursing through his veins, but that wasn’t what he was there for. No, he had more in mind. He leaned down, sucked Mycroft’s nipple into his mouth, swirled his tongue around it. Then he bit, felt Mycroft jerk underneath him, his back arching to press himself closer to Greg’s mouth. Greg gave the other nipple the same treatment, got the same reaction. Good. Every movement of Mycroft’s body was increasing the strain on Mycroft’s shoulders, on his arms.

Mycroft’s breathing was becoming ragged. Greg smiled. He leaned back, watching Mycroft’s chest heave. Delicious. Perfect. Wonderful. Each and every moment of this was being recorded for posterity in his mind. Filed into books, memorized for his doll house. He didn’t want to forget any of it. He examined Mycroft intently, a finger tracing the freckles dotting his chest. Oh, he could play with those.

Greg started slowly. Tantalizing. Testing. He wanted to push Mycroft over an edge, not destroy him completely. There was going to be a next time, at the very least. He used the sharp edge of the scalpel, traced a line from dot to dot. Shallow, superficial, but bloody. Meticulously he mapped his way from under Mycroft’s pectoral muscles and down his abdomen. His back would be even better. Greg made a note for next time.

Mycroft’s muscles trembled with the effort to stay still. He had bloodied his lower lip, and Greg leaned forward, sucked it into his mouth, rolling his hips to rub their cocks together, overwhelming both of them with pure sensation. It felt so good, but wasn’t enough, not yet. Soon. He slid his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, controlled the kiss, wrecked both of them. Mycroft moaned into his mouth, tried to move his hips, pinned by Greg’s body and the restraints. He was jerking against the handcuffs, hurting himself, and Greg shuddered, pleased.

He pulled back, ignoring Mycroft’s scowl of disappointment, and tossed the bloody scalpel carelessly to the floor. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, mouthing ‘The carpet!’. Greg rolled his eyes just to demonstrate exactly how much he didn’t care. He smeared his hand through the shallow cuts on Mycroft’s stomach, coated his fingers with blood. It was fascinating, in a way, how so very ordinary Mycroft’s blood was. It looked like a normal person’s blood. Like a prostitute’s. Like a soldier’s. Greg would know.

Carefully he tilted Mycroft’s head back, slid a blood-covered finger to Mycroft’s lips. Pressed forward until Mycroft sucked on him, lapped at it with his tongue, cleaning his own blood off of Greg’s finger. He made Mycroft clean the rest. The man had a mouth like a hoover. Greg rather liked it, thought it could be useful in other places. Later. They had time, after all. This was only their first round of the night.

Greg wiped his hand on Mycroft’s upper chest, studied the sluggishly oozing cuts, the blood mixing with the precome on Mycroft’s belly. Mycroft shifted underneath him, trying to roll his hips, and Greg shifted without meaning to, sliding his cock against Mycroft’s. He smiled. Oh, yes. Two could play that game.

He leaned forward, his broad hands wrapping themselves around Mycroft’s throat. The politician’s eyes widened, and Greg smirked, his lips curling into a dangerous smile. Yes. This was what he wanted. This was what he needed. Mycroft inhaled once and Greg tightened his grasp, cutting off the air supply to Mycroft’s lungs as he started rutting against him.

Yes, that was what he wanted. What he needed. Seeing the way Mycroft’s body shifted underneath him, how his face changed, how his body instinctively fought for air. Greg thrust harder against him, the pleasure coiling low in his belly, rocketing through his veins, building slowly. Mycroft’s lips moved, he tried to say something, anything, and he couldn’t. Greg moaned, shifting his hips faster, harder, anything to get him the friction he wanted, needed, craved.

He came with a strangled shout, releasing Mycroft’s throat to hold his biceps, sliding their cocks together sloppily as his come splattered the blood on Mycroft’s stomach. Mycroft jerked underneath him, just once, and groaned loudly as his come joined Greg’s. Greg’s breathing was harsh, ragged, and his head was bowed, forehead touching Mycroft’s shoulder. That had gone far better than he had expected. The sex with his wife had been lackluster. This had been vibrant, nearly as good as masturbating by himself. He could get used to it.

“I should leave you like this,” Greg mused.

“That wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?” Mycroft hummed, and Greg rolled his eyes. Greg unlocked the handcuffs binding Mycroft’s wrists, pleased to see the raw, red imprints left on Mycroft’s skin. Next was unbinding his ankles, then using a towel to clean Mycroft’s middle. He didn’t want the cuts to become infected. It would take away from the fun. “Don’t worry about those,” Mycroft murmured, examining the cuts intently.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, half on it, watching Mycroft shift. The cuts had mostly stopped bleeding, although there were some red droplets from the aggravation of cleaning the come off of Mycroft’s stomach. “You could come with me, next time,” Greg offered.

Mycroft paused, lifted an eyebrow. “I cannot guarantee there will not be scheduling conflicts.” He considered the proposition for a moment. “I would be delighted to attend such an event,” Mycroft said with an incline of his head. There were marks around his neck from Greg’s fingers. They would bruise, probably. Greg leaned in, nipped at Mycroft’s neck, drawing a surprised noise from Mycroft. Yes, Greg mused, licking and sucking and biting. He broke the skin, once or twice, until Mycroft had bruises decorating his neck. Eventually he pulled back.

Greg shrugged. “I’m flexible.” And he was. If Mycroft was who he said he was, what he said he was, Greg could have some fun with it. If not - well, Greg had killed his fair share of people. One more wouldn’t hurt.


End file.
